


Love is a Battlefield (and You Have the Eyes of a Soldier)

by shilo1364



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eavesdropping, Future Fic, Happy Ending, M/M, Mila is a good big sister, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Oblivious, Oblivious Yuri, OtaYuri Week 2017, Pair Skate, Pining, pining Yuri, pining otabek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9396587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shilo1364/pseuds/shilo1364
Summary: 2 years later, Yuri Plisetsky has a crush on his best friend that he's determined to ignore. Mila is determined to meddle. Yuri overhears a conversation between Mila and Beka that leaves him feeling betrayed. Before he can confront them, he has to leave to nurse his sick Grandpa and his own broken heart. When Beka shows up at Grandpa's door, Yuri doesn't know what to think. Pining with a happy ending.





	1. Heavy Metal Heart

**Author's Note:**

> The title and chapter titles are all song titles - songs that I felt are appropriate to the chapters / work and that I think Yuri would listen to. For some reason I headcanon him listening to a lot of 80s big hair bands - maybe it's his fashion sense ;-)
> 
> I will post a link to each song at the top of its respective chapter. The link for the title song (Love is a Battlefield, by Pat Benatar) is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IGVZOLV9SPo&list=PLJxgISizrEY1GTvh3_--m9qmGS6RdP6XS&index=1
> 
> I've created a youtube playlist of the songs referenced that can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLJxgISizrEY1GTvh3_--m9qmGS6RdP6XS
> 
> Or, if you prefer, on google play here: https://play.google.com/music/playlist/AMaBXymMXvNGJvbYu-kjhH_QqPK05RCfLNb74FBoj6NKy9po3mwVgOT4S3MMaVdIWC5sBVpWBXIxOnFYXZTa58qOteYqNJ_oVA==

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy Metal Heart by Sky Ferreira https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFGM3KqPOpw&list=PLJxgISizrEY1GTvh3_--m9qmGS6RdP6XS&index=2

“Yu——ri!” Mila sang, skating toward him full-tilt and slamming into the boards by his head as he surfed his social media accounts during his water cooler break. Yuri yelped in shock and fumbled to catch his phone. It was brand new - yet _another_ replacement, after he’d thrown the last one against the wall in a fit of pique - and Yakov had sworn that he wasn’t paying to replace it again. If this one broke, Yuri would be without a phone _at all_ for months. He wouldn’t be able to update his instagram or twitter. He would _die_.

“What do you want, hag?” he asked, once he had a firm grip on the phone. He shot her a fierce glare and then dropped his eyes back to the screen, swiping furiously and sticking out his tongue as he concentrated. If he’d lost the post he was replying to… No, there it was. He sighed in relief and finished tapping out his reply to Beka. There.

“So, who is she?” Mila asked, propping her elbows on top of the boards and leaning her chin on them as she tried to peer at his screen. Yuri quickly twisted the phone out of her line of sight. “Huh?”

“Spoilsport,” she pouted. Then she brightened. “Come on, Yuri! I’m _dying_ for some new gossip. Georgi’s been moping about after Anya for _ages_ and I’m tired of hearing Victor and Yuuri gush about one another. So, come on. Who is she?”

“Ew. Gross. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yuri muttered, silently cursing the faint flush he could feel spreading up the back of his neck.

“Hmmm…” Mila tapped her chin with one finger, in an annoyingly accurate imitation of Victor. “Or perhaps… perhaps it’s not a ‘she’? Ooh… is it a _young man_ that has finally caught our prickly tiger’s interest?”

He stuck his tongue out at her.

“It is! It is! Oh, kitten!” she exclaimed, spinning in a delighted and entirely unnecessary circle and clapping her hands. “I’m so happy for you!”

“Ugh, whatever, hag.” He locked his phone and tucked it into his bag, refusing to look at her. He made his way onto the ice, gliding across the rink toward where Yakov was yelling something at Victor and the piggy, and then whipped around to point an accusing finger at Mila. “And if you so much as _touch_ my bag, I will _end you_.”

“If you say so, kitten.”

He flipped her off over his shoulder as he picked up speed, nearly flubbing the jump because his arm was all wrong and his balance was off. He winced, hoping Yakov hadn’t seen that.

“Yuri! What the hell was that?”

Aaaand that would be a no. Sighing, Yuri braced himself for the lecture, fingers already itching to scroll through his social media, checking for replies. He didn’t have a crush on Beka, he told himself fiercely, sending a glare Mila’s way for good measure. He _didn’t._

 _Lies…_ whispered the annoying voice of his conscience - which sounded disturbingly like the piggy, now that he thought about it - and he sternly told it to be quiet.

* * *

“Who is he, Yuri?” Mila swooped up behind him, catching him in a hug that was half-affectionate, half-wrestling hold. Yuri nearly dropped his phone _again_.

“Ugh, just drop it already, hag!” he squawked, swiping frantically to save his half-finished text and lock the screen before she got a good look at it.

“But Yu—ri! I’m so booooooored.”

“How is that my problem? Go pick on Georgi - didn’t he take some new girl out last week?”

She grimaced. “No thanks. I’ve actually had enough Georgi drama for a while. Anyway, he already told me all about her. At length.”

“Bully for you. Now, leave me alone, already.” He could feel her frown as he stalked away.

* * *

“Yu—ri!”

“Ugh, for god’s sake.” Yuri whirled to face a startled Mila, shoving his phone back into his pocket and advancing on her. “You know what? Fine. I…like somebody. Now will you leave me the fuck alone?”

She stared at him for a second, then broke out into a sunny smile. “I knew it! Who is he? What’s his name? Do I know him? Ooh, is he a skater? Does he like you back? What —“

“Ugh! Shut UP! God, I’m not about to tell you anything else. You’ll just use it against me.”

Mila’s face fell. “But… kitten,” she said softly, “surely you don’t think I’d —“

“What am I supposed to think?” he asked, exasperatedly waving his arms. “You won’t shut up about it, you don’t take no for an answer… why the hell do you care, anyway?”

“I - because I care about you, kitten. Surely you know that. You’re like my little brother.” She surged forward, startling him, and wrapped her arms around him.

“Ugh. Get OFF, hag. I don’t need a big sister!”

“Sure you do.”

He sighed. “Ok, fine. Whatever. But I’m still not telling you who he is. It’s — I’m just not ready, OK?”

“That’s fine. I’m sorry I was pressuring you. But…” she bit her lip, “you _will_ tell me, won’t you? When you’re ready?”

“…Maybe. And that’s all you’re gonna get for now. Geez. Now can I _please_ get back to the ice before Yakov bites my head off?”

“All right, little brother.” She ruffled his hair affectionately, and Yuri hissed at her. She dissolved into giggles. “Yuri! You… you’re just like a cat! I can’t — oh, kitten, you’re _adorable_.”

“Ugh, whatever, hag.” Yuri ducked his head to try and hide the embarrassed flush crawling across his cheeks. He hadn’t actually _meant_ to hiss - he’d just been startled. Perhaps he’d been spending too much time with his cat as his only company lately. Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone. Well, maybe _some_ one. He thought of his phone, safely tucked away in his bag, and the message he’d gotten that morning, the picture he’d saved on his phone so he could look at it as long as he wanted, and couldn’t stop the sappy grin that spread across his face. Ugh. He _so_ didn’t need this. Hopefully it would go away before the next competition, and he and Beka could maintain their easy friendship. That’s all he really wanted.

 _Lies_ … hissed the voice in his head.

 _Ugh_ , he thought back at it, annoyed. _Just shut up, already. You’re as bad as Mila._

* * *

_“_ So, have you?”

Yuri tugged his earbuds out of his ears irritably. “Have I what?”

Mila rolled her eyes. “Uuuuuggghhh, why are you boys so _slow_? You’re as bad as Georgi, I swear. I’m talking about mystery man, of course!”

“First of all, I’m nothing like Georgi, so don’t even think about putting us in the same category. And second… mystery man? What is this, James Bond?” He moved to put his earbuds back in, but Mila reached out a hand to stop him.

“Yuri. I’m serious. Pining like this can’t be good for you. And what about him? Does he even know how you feel?”

“Well…”

She sighed, collapsing back to lean against the boards, and chewed her lip pensively, all pretense of joking gone. “You have to say something, kitten,” she said finally, looking up at him earnestly.

He sighed and leaned back next to her. “I know. But, what if I ruin our friendship?

Mila snorted beside him, running her hand though her red hair. “You know, for someone who’s so determined to keep this guy a secret, you’re doing a pretty lousy job. You’ve just eliminated 99% of the people on the planet.”

He gave her shoulder a half-hearted punch. “Yeah, well. Maybe I don’t wanna ruin things with one of the few people I do get along with.” He carefully didn’t meet her eyes, leaning forward so his fringe obscured his vision.

Mila sighed and tilted his chin back up, brushing his hair back and offering him a lopsided smile. “Oh, kitten. That’s one of the risks of liking someone, I’m afraid. Sometimes they just don’t like you back.” Then she pushed herself up, bouncing on her toes a few times. The sparkle returned to her eyes. “Of course, if you never tell him, then you’ll never know, will you? And you’ll have to keep it secret. That’s tough on a friendship, too. Besides. If he really cares for you - even just as a friend - he’ll understand.”

He sighed as he watched her skate lazy loops and spirals around the ice. She caught his gaze and pirouetted, calling, “Ask him on a date! Before someone else does!”

Then she was off, challenging a moping Georgi to a race, and Yuri sighed. Ask him. Right. Like it was that easy. He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, then paused, fingers hovering over his chat with Beka. He bit his lip, chewing furiously on it as he pulled up that photo of him he’d saved. It was one of the few pictures he had of Beka - he didn’t believe in a social media presence, which Yuri accepted (for now) even if he didn’t understand - and unlike the official ones, it was a selfie. Beka was smiling and relaxed, off on some hike or other, it looked like. Yuri felt his cheeks heat as he stared at it. He wanted Beka - he was sure about that at least. He even had - ugh - _feelings_ for him. And… maybe Beka wanted him, too? He wasn’t nearly as sure about that, but it didn’t seem impossible. Not with that unguarded expression, saved just for Yuri.

He sighed heavily and locked his phone again, replacing it in his bag. He would ask him. He would. Soon. Just… not yet.

 _Lies_ …

Yuri scowled, jammed his earbuds back in, cranked the volume up as high as it would go, and attacked the ice.

 


	2. Love Hurts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I marched today, in my local Women's March on Washington. It was beautiful. (Not strictly related, but I had to share. Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.)
> 
> The song that goes with this chapter is "Love Hurts" by Joan Jett. Music video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rhnZ19sbxps&list=PLJxgISizrEY1GTvh3_--m9qmGS6RdP6XS&index=3

Yuri shuffled down the halls and outside in a daze, floating along with the current of jubilant skaters. He’d done it. Again. He’d ended the season here at Worlds with yet another gold medal. Sure, everybody was talking about Victor and the piggy’s proposal and imminent wedding, and the disgustingly sappy exhibition pair-skate that marked the end of their skating careers, but for once Yuri wasn’t bothered by it. He’d be back here on the ice next season; let the lovebirds have their moment. He looked around for Beka, sure he, at least, would be more excited for Yuri’s gold (and impressed by his uncharacteristically magnanimous attitude)… only he wasn’t there. Yuri frowned, slowing his steps and letting the others surge ahead of him. He’d been right beside him, hadn’t he?

“Yurio!” Victor shouted, “aren’t you coming to celebrate with us?”

“I’ll catch up to you guys in a minute - I think I forgot my jacket,” he called back, not bothering to protest being called ‘Yurio’ - not that Victor would listen anyway, since he never had before - as he wondered what Beka could be doing. He hesitated. Would it seem stalker-y to go back for him? He didn’t want him to miss out on the fun. Well, to be perfectly honest, he had no intention of going if Beka wasn’t. Decided, he turned back toward the changing rooms - the last place he could remember seeing him.

The building was nearly empty, and his footsteps echoed oddly in the stillness. He nodded to the janitor as he passed him, feeling a moment of sympathy for the man as he thought of the colorful wrappers and papers that littered the stands. The door to the changing rooms swung silently open beneath his fingers; he was about to call out when he heard voices, muffled by the partially closed door to the next room. He was pretty sure one of them was Beka’s

Yuri frowned and crept to the other door, grateful that his sneakers didn’t squeak for once. From his new position, the voices were clearer. It was Beka. And… Mila?

“So, you’ll go with me to the banquet, then?” Mila’s voice was bright with laughter, as usual.

Yuri’s breath caught painfully in his chest, and the sudden ringing in his ears drowned out the next words. When he could hear again, Beka was saying, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” His voice wasn’t as bright as Mila’s, but he didn’t sound upset, either.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!”

Otabek didn’t answer at first, and Yuri clutched the edge of the door so hard he lost feeling in his fingers.

After a long moment, Otabek sighed. “All right.”

Yuri’s knees buckled, and he was glad for his hold on the door. Then he heard movement, footsteps drawing closer, and he panicked. He had to get out of there, before they realized he was listening. He poured all of his will into forcing his legs to move.

* * *

“Yuri! There you are! Where’s your jacket?”

Victor’s voice snapped him out of the haze his mind was floating in, and he started when he realized that he was back in the hotel lobby.

He thought, distantly, that it was lucky he hadn’t got run over or something. Then he realized that Victor was looking at him oddly, and the piggy was with him, and he couldn’t bear their questions right now, he just couldn’t.

“Oh, um. I didn’t see it. Maybe Yakov grabbed it.” He forced a jerky shrug. “Whatever, I’ll get it later.”

“Are you OK, Yurio? You look a little —“

“I’m fine,” he snapped, then sighed. “I guess I’m more worn out than I realized. Hey, have you guys seen Yakov? I need to ask him something about my routine, and see if he has my jacket.”

Yuuri frowned, but Victor, at least, seemed to take his explanation at face value. “Oh, yes. Your final jump did seem a little off. He’s in his room, I think.”

Yuri nodded stiffly and turned toward the elevators.

“Are you coming to the celebration, Yurio?” Yuuri called after him.

Yuri faked a yawn. “I might just turn in, if that’s all right? I really am tired - think I might have strained something on those last jumps.”

He hadn’t of course, but they didn’t know that. The sympathy in their eyes weighed heavily on him, but he couldn’t face the others just now. The moment the elevator doors closed behind him, he collapsed back against the wall and groaned.

“What the hell, Mila?” he asked his reflection in the mirrored ceiling. “When you told me to ask him on a date before someone else did, I didn’t think the someone else would be _you_!”

His reflection had no answers.

He was tempted to just go straight to his room, but he needed Yakov to corroborate his story. Luckily he did, and after some scathing comments about the last jumps, he sent him off to bed. He even gave him permission to skip the banquet the next day so he could work on the jumps.

“What the hell? They weren’t _that_ bad.” Yuri muttered petulantly as he slouched back to his room. Then he sighed. “Whatever. I got what I wanted, anyway.” Never mind that what he really wanted was apparently beyond his reach.

* * *

Mila caught him as he tried to slip out of the hotel unnoticed the next afternoon. He’d meant to leave earlier, but had got caught up in watching the replay of his routine. His last jumps really _were_ that bad. Huh.

“Yuri! Wait! Where are you going?”

He held up his skates. “Practice. What does it look like?”

She frowned. “What about your date?”

“Huh? What date?”

She faltered. “But… you said… I thought you were…”

“Oh, that.” He forced a laugh. “Turns out I just misread the signs.”

“Yuri…”

“Shut up, hag. I’m not even sure I like them.”

_Lies…_

_“_ Anyway, it’s better this way.”

_Lies…_

_“_ I don’t have time for distractions.”

“But…”

He flipped her off over his shoulder and kept walking.

* * *

He successfully avoided Beka, hiding in his room “packing” until he was sure he would have left for his flight. Only then did he venture down to breakfast.

“Yuri! There you are!”

“Huh? Beka? Don’t you have a plane to catch?”

Beka rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “No. Turns out coach had to take off earlier than she’d planned for the baby, so I asked her if I could train with you guys for a while. I’ll be flying out with you later today.”

“Oh. That’s… good.” He turned back toward his room. He could just get room service.

“Yura!”

He closed his eyes, then slowly turned back, praying his face didn’t betray him. “Yeah?”

“Would you show me around the city sometime? Now that I’m gonna be staying with you guys for awhile?”

Beka looked so earnest, and Yuri just wanted to disappear. How was he supposed to avoid him now?

“Yeah. Sure, Beka. I’d like that.”

_Lies…_

“Great. Have you had breakfast yet?”

As he followed Beka into the dining room, he wondered if maybe Yakov would let him visit Grandpa for a bit. Not too long - just long enough to beat this stupid crush into submission. He pulled out his phone without really thinking about it and dialed the familiar number.

* * *

He forgot about breakfast entirely when it wasn’t Grandpa that answered. He scowled as he listened to his neighbor’s harried explanation, then dialed the number she gave him. _This_ time Grandpa answered.

_“Cough… Yuratchka? Is that you? How did your competition go? I’m sorry I forgot to call —“_

“Never mind that! Grandpa - why didn’t you tell me you’re in the hospital again?”

_“…Now, Yuratchka. You know I don’t like to bother you during competitions.”_

“I don’t care about that! Yelena Petrova said she found you in the hallway last week? And she had to _force_ you to go to the hospital.”

_“You know she exaggerates, Yuratchka. It’s not serious. Just my back acting up again.”_

“And what are you going to do when you get out? You know she can’t take time off to take care of you.”

_“I’ll be fine, I’m sure.”_

“Yes, you will. Because I’m coming to take care of you. I’ll be there as soon as I can get a flight.”

_“Yuratchka…”_

“I’ll call you back when I’ve booked my tickets.”

“Yura?”

He looked up into Beka’s worried face, and winced. “Sorry, Beka. I can’t eat breakfast with you right now - I have to find Yakov, and— Yakov!”

“What is the matter now, Yuratchka? I’ve already settled Beka’s flight —“

“I have to change my tickets - I need to go and stay with Grandpa for awhile.”

Yakov stared at him. “What? For how long? I know it’s the end of the season, but your jumps need work and—“

“I don’t know how long,” Yuri cut in impatiently. “He’s in the hospital. _Again_ , apparently. He won’t be able to take care of himself for a while and—“ He broke off, tapping at his phone. “And there’s a flight today but it boards in just a few hours. Yakov I need to go! Please?”

Yakov’s face softened, and he patted Yuri on the shoulder. “Of course, Yuratchka. I’ll have Lilia send some of your things once we get back. When do you have to be at the airport? Do you want me get the ticket and a taxi?”

Yuri handed him the phone, nodding in relief.

“Come on,” Beka said, settling a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get you some snacks to eat on the plane. That way you won’t have to think about it later.”

* * *

“Yuri!” Mila shouted, flagging him down as he headed outside to wait for the cab. “Where are you going? You’re not running away from your feelings, are you?”

“Please. Like I’d do that. I’m not extra like Victor or Georgi.”

_Lies…_

“I’m going to stay with Grandpa for awhile. He’s sick - he needs me.”

She clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s not serious?”

“I - I don’t know. I hope not, but he’s in the hospital. Again, apparently. I don’t know when he was planning to tell me, but… I’m not sure how long I’ll need to stay.”

She pulled him into a quick hug. “Good luck Yuri.”

“Thanks.”

He settled himself in the taxi, pulled out his phone - and then remembered. “Oh! Hang on - I need to tell her something.”

The cabdriver rolled his eyes, but nodded when Yuri dug a handful of bills out of his pocket and shoved it at him without bothering to see how much it was. “Make it quick. We’re cutting it close as it is.”

He stuck his head out of the window. “Mila!”

“Yeah?”

“I forgot - I was supposed to show Beka around town when we got back. Will you do it for me?”

She frowned. “You don’t think he’d rather wait for you to do it?”

“No - It’s just so he can get familiar with the area. He likes to walk or ride his bike to unwind. Anyway, since I don’t know how long I’ll be gone…”

She smiled. “All right, kitten.”

“Thanks.”

He rolled up the window, nodded to the driver, and then shoved his earbuds in his ears and tried desperately to drown out the thought of Mila showing Beka all _her_ favorite spots. That, by the time he got back, they would most likely be _his_ favorites too.


	3. Eye of the Tiger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that goes with this chapter is Eye of the Tiger by Survivor: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=btPJPFnesV4&index=4&list=PLJxgISizrEY1GTvh3_--m9qmGS6RdP6XS

By the time he had unfolded himself from the cramped economy seat, Yuri was livid. He stomped down to the baggage claim, wrestled his leopard-print bag off the carousel, and then marched out to the waiting taxi. His breath steamed in the early-morning air, escaping his clenched teeth in small puffs. He felt like a dragon. A miniature one, maybe - tiny, but fierce.

Grandpa’s flat was locked, but he knew where the spare key was hidden. He didn’t want to bother his neighbors this early. He lugged his bag into his old room, smiling wistfully up at the posters of famous skaters and American rock and punk bands that were plastered across his walls, and then set out to look for his cat. “Princess,” he called, checking her usual hideouts under his bed and in the closet. “Princess, where are you?”

He frowned when there was no answer. She must have found a new hideout while he’d been gone. He felt a momentary stab of guilt for leaving her here, but brushed it aside. He couldn’t very well take her with him to competitions. He’d considered taking her to St. Petersburg, but Lilia was deathly allergic to cats. Yuri shook his head, thankful that he didn’t share that allergy. That would be a fate worse than death.

“Princess! Where are you? It’s Yuri - your humble servant.” He frowned around the sparse living room. Had it always been so empty and dingy? The trinkets and paintings and scattered memorabilia he remembered were noticeably absent.

He was about to try the kitchen when the doorknob rattled and began to turn. Yuri froze, heart hammering in his chest. Grandpa was still at the hospital - he was set to be released today. He scanned frantically for something - anything - to use as a weapon, but there was nothing nearby even remotely suitable. He was just considering ducking behind the couch when the door burst open, revealing a plump elderly woman bundled into tattered coat and shawl. She struggled for a moment with the door, juggling the key, an oversized purse, and a small brown-and-white cat.

“Princess!” Yuri said, breath whooshing out of him in relief. Of _course_ it was grandpa’s neighbor, come to check on things. Of course she would be taking care of Princess in Grandpa’s absence.

“Oh - Yuri!” she exclaimed, blinking startled blue eyes at him as she pressed her left hand to her chest. Princess squirmed free of her hold and stalked to the kitchen door, tail raised high in affront. “I didn’t think you’d be here yet. Goodness - you should have knocked — yes, yes, darling. I’ll get your food. Just a moment.” She unwrapped her scarf and slipped out of her jacket, following Yuri’s cat into the kitchen. Yuri tagged along after her, smiling as Princess began to devour her favorite cat food.

“Thank you for taking care of her, Yelena Petrova” he said, offering Princess his hand to sniff and then settling her gingerly against his chest when she bounded at him with sudden enthusiasm. The elderly woman chuckled.

“Call me Lena, lad. It’s what your grandfather calls me - and half this town. You’re the spitting image of your mother - it would feel strange to stand on ceremony with you.”

Yuri bit his lip, startled at the tears threatening to spill over.

“I’m sorry, Yuratchka,” she said, “I didn’t think —“

“It’s all right,” he said, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes. “Its silly to miss her, isn’t it - I barely knew her.”

She clicked her tongue, but didn’t answer, and then drew Yuri into a brief hug. “It’s only natural, what with coming here to care for Nikolai. And a good thing, too - he won’t listen to me, stubborn bastard.”

Yuri sniffed, smile escaping despite his sudden melancholy. “Yes, well. I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but… I’ll try.”

“Good,” Yelena said firmly. “Now, run along and wash up. I’ll drop you at the hospital on my way to work, if you like, but we’ll have to leave soon.”

Yuri nodded gratefully and escaped to the bathroom. A few splashes of icy water and a firm scrub, and his face was clear again - if a bit pink. He thrust his arms through the sleeves of his jacket, tucked his phone into his pocket, and wrapped a scarf tightly around his neck. He had the ridiculous thought that he was suiting up for battle, and he snorted as he walked down the hall to join Lena.

* * *

She dropped him off in front of the hospital, as promised, and he spent a long moment just staring up at the imposing building. Grandpa was in there, somewhere. It didn’t feel real, somehow.

Someone bumped into him, not-quite-rudely, jostling him out of his thoughts, and he firmed his jaw. Right. He could do this. He took a deep breath and held it, counting to five as Beka had suggested, and then strode up to the doors.

The trick to doctors, he had learned long ago, back when his mother had taken his tiny hand in hers and bent down to whisper her secret in his ear, was confidence. And 17-year old Yuri Plisetsky, with a handful of gold medals and a world record that still stood - he knew a thing or two about confidence. Not to mention he’d spent years now competing against JJ fucking Leroy. After that, he could probably write a dissertation on confidence.

* * *

“Ah, Yuratchka, It’s good to see you.”

Yuri let himself sink into Grandpa’s familiar hug for a moment, then gently extricated himself.

“It’s good to see you, too, Grandpa. Let’s get you home.”

Yuri grasped the handles of the wheelchair, sliding his palms absently along the grooves in the rubber grips. “Ready?”

Grandpa craned his neck, scowling at Yuri. “What do you think you’re doing? We’re not taking this with us?”

Yuri snorted. “Unless you’d rather I try to carry you? I’d rather not. The doctor wants to be sure you give your back time to heal, this time, so - wheelchair it is.” He leaned forward, using his body weight to start the chair moving, then easing into a rhythm, testing its momentum.

“This is undignified,” Grandpa grumbled. He plucked irritably at the afghan the cheerful nurse had tucked around him, and Yuri smiled. He wasn’t _really_ upset, just had to put up a token protest to maintain his dignity. Yuri was willing to give him that.

It took a few tries to get him settled comfortably in the cab, but they managed it, in the end. Yuri folded up the wheelchair, just as the nurse had shown him, and ducked inside.

His mind wandered to Beka, as they sped down the road. What was he doing right now? Was he getting along all right without Yuri there? He snorted. Of course he was. Beka was probably having a grand time. With Mila.

He checked his phone, angling it carefully so Grandpa didn’t see. Maybe…

No.

Nothing.

He scrolled listlessly through comments on his last instagram post for a moment, but his heart wasn’t in it. He locked the phone and slipped it back into his pocket with a quiet sigh.

He hadn’t posted anything since he’d left to come here. It hadn’t been that long, really, but he usually posted a lot more often. Well, if anyone commented, he could use Grandpa’s injury as an excuse.

* * *

_If_ anyone commented. Yuri stared at his ceiling for a moment, then switched the phone off and tossed it into the corner, wincing at the thud it made when it hit the floor. Oops. At least if he broke his phone, he wouldn’t have to keep staring at an empty inbox.

He tugged the covers up to his chin, snuggled his favorite stuffed tiger even closer, and closed his eyes.

* * *

Nothing.

Yuri switched the phone off again, left it on the dresser. It felt weird not having its familiar weight in his pocket, but he needed to remove the temptation. He’d already checked it fifty times that morning.

* * *

“Yuratchka!” Grandpa smiled at him as he wandered back into the living room. The wheelchair had given them a bit of trouble that morning, and Yuri could tell he’d been in pain, but he looked a bit more comfortable now. “It’s good to see you, my boy. But, you can’t leave in the middle of the season!”

Yuri sighed. They’d already been over this a few times. “The season’s practically over now,” he said. “Anyway, I’ve already won gold at my senior level Grand Prix debut, and the only senior-level competitions I’ve _not_ won gold at in the last three years were because Victor returned to skating, and he and the piggy scraped out a win or two between them. There’ll be plenty more chances later.”

He frowned around at the empty spaces, noticing them again. “Grandpa, why didn’t you tell me you were ill? How long have you been living like this?”

Grandpa looked away. “Ah, well. I didn’t want to bother you, Yuratchka. It’s not so bad as all that.”

“Nonsense. I don’t mind. I’ll have things cleaned up in a jiffy.” Yuri went to get the broom out of the kitchen, but stopped when he opened the cupboard. He frowned. Closed it. Opened the next. They were nearly empty.

“But first,” he called, frowning around the kitchen and shaking his head “is there anything you want from the market? There’s not much food here.”

Grandpa coughed. “I don’t eat much.”

Yuri stuck his head back through the doorway. “You don’t eat anything, looks like. I’ll be back soon. Can I get you anything before I go? Some water?”

“Wait - Yuratchka!” Grandpa called, as Yuri shrugged on his coat. “My check doesn’t come in until next week. I’m sure there’s something in the cupboards…”

Yuri paused with one arm in his coat and leveled a glare at him. “I have money, Grandpa. You think all those gold medals don’t come with prize money too? And sponsorships?”

“I don’t want you to spend your money on me, Yuratchka. I do all right for myself, you know.”

Yuri sighed. “Grandpa. I have _far_ too much money as it is. I don’t spend it, you know, like they say. Most of it goes into a savings account.”

He was struck by a sudden inspiration and dropped the coat, striding back into the kitchen. He opened and closed the bare cupboards, searching. “Where is your medicine?”

Grandpa wouldn’t look at him. “What medicine?”

Yuri closed the last cupboard with a bang. “The medicine the doctor prescribed. The nurse gave me a list while I was checking you out of the hospital.”

“Oh. Those medicines.”

“Yes, those medicines. Where are they?” Yuri paused, then smacked his forehead. “Wait a minute - we never stopped at the pharmacy, did we?”

Grandpa waved his hand, as if to clear the unpleasant issue from the air. “I’ll send Lena to get them next weekend…”

“Grandpa.” Yuri glared at him. “You need those medicines now. I’ll get them while I’m out. Wait. Those therapy and specialist appointments?”

Grandpa stared straight ahead, lips flattened mutinously.

Yuri massaged his temples. It wasn’t even noon yet and he was getting a headache. “Right. I’ll call them tomorrow and get everything set up.”

Grandpa grasped his arm as he made to walk past him to the door. “Yuratchka. I cannot afford those appointments. I’ll be all right without them. You’ll see.”

Yuri shook his hand off irritably. “I. Have. Money. I will pay for the damn appointments!”

“But your savings, Yuratchka—“

“You’re my family, Grandpa. You’re all the family I have. That’s more important than my bank balance. Anyway, I’ve more than enough. Let me worry about that - you just worry about getting better.”

Grandpa closed his eyes and deflated slightly. “When did you grow up, Yuratchka? I’m used to taking care of you - I’m not sure if I can get used to things being the other way around, now.”

Yuri felt his cheeks glow in pleased embarrassment, and impulsively leaned in to hug him. “Hey. You won’t need me to take care of you forever. Just long enough for you to get better.”

Grandpa looked up at him earnestly. “I’m getting old, Yuratchka. I’m not sure how much better I’ll—“

Yuri hugged him tighter.

“Oof,” Grandpa said, laughing. “You’ve gotten stronger, I see.”

“You will,” Yuri said fiercely. “You will get better. You’re still strong, Grandpa. Don’t give up just yet.”

“How about some piroshki for dinner tonight?” Grandpa asked gruffly.

Yuri smiled brightly, accepting the peace offering for what it was. “Katsudon piroshki?”

Grandpa chuckled. “If that’s what you want, why not? You’ll have to help me make it, though - do you remember how to make piroshki?”

“Do I remember how to make piroshki?” Yuri muttered as he grabbed the shopping bags and twined his scarf about his neck. “Of _course_ I fucking remember how to make piroshki. Honestly.”

He stomped out the door, still muttering.

“Don’t forget the pork cutlets, Yuratchka!” Grandpa called after him, still laughing.

“That was _once_!” Yuri called back, just before the door closed.


	4. With or Without You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that goes with this chapter is With or Without You by U2: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XmSdTa9kaiQ&index=5&list=PLJxgISizrEY1GTvh3_--m9qmGS6RdP6XS

Yuri reached out, hesitated, then picked up his phone and unlocked it with a shaky swipe of his finger. No texts. No voicemails. No email.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart as he logged into Instagram. It wasn’t a big deal or anything. It had only been a few days since he’d last spoken to Beka. Yeah, they usually chatted every few days, and texted more often, but maybe…

0 new messages.

37 new followers

189 likes

75 comments

Yuri turned off his phone without bothering to read any more. The comments would all be from the Angels anyway. He usually read every comment; even responded to some of the more amusing ones. He… just didn’t feel like it right now. Maybe it wouldn’t seem like so much effort if he had a snack, first. He could just be hungry, right?

_Lies_ …

He left the phone on his dresser and wandered out to the kitchen to see if there were any oranges left.

* * *

0 new messages

45 new followers

342 likes

88 new comments

* * *

0 new messages

* * *

0 new messages

* * *

Yuri rolled over, yawned, and reached for his phone - like he did every morning. He paused, finger hovering indecisively over the screen. He sighed, tossed it back onto the dresser without unlocking it. What was the point?

* * *

The next morning he shoved the phone into the bottom drawer of his dresser without even bothering to open it. He was tired of it sitting there day after day, silently mocking him.

* * *

The phone rang, a few days later, and for a moment he stared around in puzzlement, wondering where the vaguely familiar music was coming from. Then he remembered that he’d changed his ringtone just before the competition.

He scrambled to get it, nearly knocking over his chair, clipping his shoulder on the doorframe after cutting the corner too short, and tossing half the contents of the drawer across the room in his haste.

He grabbed it seconds before his voicemail picked up.

“Hello?” he asked, breathless with anticipation.

“Yuri!” Victor’s obnoxiously cheerful voice hit him like a sledgehammer and he could only sit for a moment, stunned, and listen as Victor chattered on obliviously about the amazing meal he and the piggy had had yesterday and the amazing trip they were planning and—

Yuri finally found his voice.

“Victor.”

It wasn’t welcoming. His voice was scratchy from disuse - he thought back to the last time he’d spoken and realized he hadn’t actually said a word today. Huh.

“Yuri?” Victor didn’t ask why Yuri had cut him off so rudely, in the middle of a sentence. He didn’t seem phased at all. Yuri wondered how much insolence his friends were used to, from him, then shrugged the thought off. He could examine his character flaws later.

“What do you want?”

“I just wanted to check on you, see how your grandfather is doing.”

“We’re fine.”

His voice was oddly flat, expressionless, and he knew Victor could hear it. He just hoped that he’d shrug it off in his usual oblivious manner.

“Have you been skating at all?”

Yuri blinked. He hadn’t honestly thought about skating once since he’d gotten here. “No-o. The rink’s too far to walk and Grandpa isn’t well enough to drive.”

He could take the bus, of course. Or ask Lena. But he didn’t really want to.

“That’s too bad.” Victor’s voice grew distant, and Yuri knew he was getting distracted. Good.

“Hey, Victor? Grandpa’s calling me. I think he might need…“

He couldn’t think of anything Grandpa might need from him, but that didn’t matter. It was Victor.

“Hmm? Oh, okay Yuri. Tell him hi for me.”

“I will.”

He stared at the phone blankly for a long moment after Victor hung up, half expecting a much more _pointed_ call from Beka. Or Mila. Yuuri even. Not Georgi, though - he was even more self-absorbed than Victor.

After several minutes of silence, he realized that no one was going to call. They were all apparently satisfied with Victor’s message. Well. Good.

He stuffed the phone back in the drawer, then gathered up the clothes that lay strewn across the room and folded them. When he finished, the drawer looked neater than it had in years.

Then he pulled the phone back out and powered it off, shoving it as far back into the drawer as he could and burying it under the newly-folded clothes. He didn’t really want to replay that embarrassing little scene.

* * *

He took the phone out a few days later in a fit of melancholy, and was unsurprised - but still disappointed - to find no messages. None. It had been more than a week now since he’d had any social media presence at all.

Even the comments from his Angels had slowed to a trickle. Not that he minded that, really. Sure, he’d always gotten a guilty pleasure from reading their ridiculous theories about him, but he wasn’t really surprised. He’d never gone this long without posting anything new, before.

He debated posting a selfie, or even just a photo - a sunrise or something. But it felt like too much effort. He felt hollow.

He shrugged off the feeling and decided to see if Grandpa would teach him to make borsht.

* * *

This was the first time in nearly 3 years that he’d gone so long without some kind of message from Beka. It wasn’t hard to see he’d been replaced.

Anyway, he thought mutinously, he kind of liked the silence. Without his phone there, constantly distracting him, he learned to appreciate the slow beauty of the winter. He watched the sunset, and sunrise, and the snow weighing heavily on the branches of the trees, the eaves of the buildings. Everything was prettier, he thought, when he wasn’t trying to get the perfect photo.

It was nice, too, to not have to worry about what everyone was saying about him. He’d lived so long in the public eye, with the Angels and the media watching his every move - he rather liked this new, peaceful anonymity.

He suddenly understood Beka’s point about living in the moment and not always trying to pin it down. That it really _was_ different to experience life in person, instead of capturing it on a screen to - what? Why _had_ he spent so much time documenting his every move on social media? Was he really so shallow that he’d rather accumulate likes and comments than memories?

He wondered how much he’d missed.

* * *

Yuri couldn’t remember the last person he’d spoken to, other than Grandpa. Victor, must have been. But that was days ago, now. He could see how Beka might like this increasingly hermit-like and introspective existence - but the thought of Beka only made him sad again.

He sighed, and wondered what Beka was doing. Was he skating? Riding his bike alone through the urban jungle of St. Petersburg? Or was Mila with him, red hair flying like a banner in the wind, arms raised in gleeful exultance, laughter taking flight like tropical birds? Was Beka smiling - that genuine smile that only Yuri could tease from him? Was he laughing?

* * *

Yuri realized abruptly that he’d been staring into space, knife held idly in one hand, half-peeled potato in the other. He gave himself a determined shake and returned to work.

* * *

“So…who are you running away from?”

Yuri startled, nicked his thumb with the edge of the paring knife. “Huh?” He looked away guiltily, sticking his thumb in his mouth as much to stop the words from spilling out as to stop the bleeding.

Grandpa sighed, lay down his own knife, turned to Yuri. “I know you, Yuratchka. I’ve never seen you go five minutes without checking your phone, and now I haven’t seen it in days. I thought you’d broken it, or lost it, but you used it just now.”

“I did?” Yuri frowned. The unfamiliar weight of his phone in his pocket puzzled him - he’d taken it out earlier, he remembered, to snap some photos of the sunset, and must have forgotten to put it away again. Huh. But…

“Who is she?”

Yuri took a deep breath, wondering if he was really about to do this. Should he do this?

“He, actually.”

He bit his lip, worrying at it, waiting for Grandpa to make a scene, but the old man only grunted.

“Hmph. Oh, don’t give me that look, Yuratchka. The heart doesn’t choose where to love, I know that well enough.”

Yuri looked up, startled, and Grandpa smiled at him, a touch wistfully. It was true - they both knew that.

“Now, tell me his name so I can go knock some sense into him for breaking my precious grandson’s heart.”

Yuri snorted at the mental image, and then sighed. “It doesn’t matter, Grandpa. He doesn’t feel the same. I just let my heart get carried away. And, I’m not running away. Exactly.”

_Lies…_ whispered the heartless voice of his newfound conscience. Yuri ignored it.

“I’m happy to be here for you, Grandpa, truly.”

Grandpa smiled at him, but his eyes were sad as he reached over to pat Yuri on the shoulder. “You can’t stay here forever, Yuratchka.”

“No,” Yuri said. “I know that. But I can stay for as long as you need me.”

Grandpa gave him a long, searching look, then nodded slowly. “And your heart?”

Yuri shrugged. “Will heal, I imagine. More or less.”

_Lies_ …

“Touché.” Grandpa saluted him with his paring knife, and then they both returned to work. Yuri’s heart wasn’t lighter, exactly, but it felt less… burdensome. It was nice, he supposed, to finally be able to admit his feelings to someone. Even if neither of them could do anything about the situation, it still helped to talk about it.

* * *

Yuri didn’t check his messages again. He almost did, that first night, fumbling his way to bed after another heart-to-heart with Grandpa over a bottle of vodka. His phone had lain in his pocket all evening, growing seemingly heavier with every passing moment. He resisted checking it, where Grandpa could see. He wasn’t sure he could take another of those knowing and faintly pitying looks.

He left it in his jacket pocket as he changed. He hung the jacket in its customary spot behind the door, and then carefully didn’t look at it as he brushed his teeth and got ready for bed. He even got into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and hugging his stuffed tiger, hard.

Twenty sleepless minutes later, he admitted to himself that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep without knowing…

He was faintly surprised, as he drew the cool, sleek phone from his pocket. He’d half-expected it to pulse with heat like it did in his mind. He worried at his lip, stroking the metal and glass absently. He felt guilty already, faintly dirty. He shouldn’t check it. He really shouldn’t…

His fingers were already busy unlocking it. He held his breath…

He got a flash of his home screen, and then nothing. The battery must have died. He wasn’t sure when he’d charged it last.

He sighed, but felt a curious lightness settle into the churning maelstrom of his mind. He _couldn’t_ check his messages, and having the decision taken out of his hands was something of a relief. He would take it as a sign.

He shoved the phone back into its drawer before he could change his mind. He didn’t charge it.

Within minutes of crawling back into bed, he was asleep.


	5. Someone Like You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is split into two sections: The first in Otabek's POV, the second in Yuri's. It should be clearly marked. This chapter was beta-ed by the lovely Altergravity
> 
> Also, the song that goes with this chapter is Someone Like You by Adele, found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLQl3WQQoQ0&list=PLJxgISizrEY1GTvh3_--m9qmGS6RdP6XS&index=6

** Otabek POV **

Otabek checked his phone. Again. It had become something of a habit, in the weeks since Yura had abruptly left to stay with his grandfather. A tiny flicker of hope flared to life as he tapped the screen, opening his Instagram.

0 messages

He felt the flicker of hope die. Again. He hadn’t heard from Yura - not once. Not a call, or a text, or an email. Not even a mention or a hashtag. Nothing. It was unprecedented. It was depressing.

Otabek slumped forward, ignoring the plate of pancakes in front of him. Mila deftly shifted it out of the way of his hair. He’d been dragged along on this ‘traditional’ diner run nearly every night since he arrived in St. Petersburg. He wasn’t sure exactly what prompted the skaters to decide that any given night was a ‘Pancake Night’ - but he suspected it had something to do with getting yelled at in practice. Now that he’d spent some time in a rink with Yakov, he had a greater appreciation for Yura and Victor’s stoic acceptance of his tirades. He also wondered how on earth they managed to keep their weight down eating like this nearly every night.

He appreciated their efforts to include him, truly he did, but he had little patience for Victor and Yuuri and Georgi’s antics. Of all of them, Mila was the most sensible, but that wasn't saying much. He would attribute it to Russians being in general more prone to dramatics, except that Yuuri was Japanese. And, anyway, Yura was Russian, wasn’t he? And he certainly wasn’t as ridiculous as this lot.

He lifted his head enough to look around him, then dropped it again with a quiet thump. Honestly. How were these children grown adults? Hell, Victor and Yuuri were getting married soon, and they’d both been floating the idea of adoption. Not immediately, but, still. He imagined the two of them trying to raise a child and gave an involuntary shudder.

He missed Yuri. The spiky fluffball (as he privately referred to him) had grown on him. He missed him, as he had never missed any other human in his life. And he was obviously not missed in return. His fingers twitched toward his pocket and he jerked them back, cracking his wrist against the edge of the table in the process. He swore softly in Kazakh.

“Are you all right, Otabek?” Mila asked.

“Of _course_ I—“

He looked up, saw the genuine concern in her eyes, and cut off the harsh reply he’d meant to make. He cast about for an acceptable answer that wouldn’t reveal too much.

“I was just wondering what Yuri’s been working on. He was having trouble with that jump, but I know he’d been landing it cleanly in practice, and then there’s a new season’s programs to work out, and—“

Victor looked up, puzzled, from his whispered conversation with Yuuri. “He’s not.”

Otabek frowned at him. “What do you mean ‘he’s not.’ Not _what_?”

“He hasn’t skated at all - hadn’t, anyway, when I called him the other day.”

Yuuri touched his fiancée’s wrist, brows drawn down in puzzlement. “Victor… that was more than a week ago.”

Victor’s smile was bright, guileless. “Was it? You know, you really must try some of this, it’s—“

Otabek surged to his feet, leaning over the table into Victor’s space and slamming his hands down, without really registering what he was doing. The dishes rattled. “You haven’t talked to him since?” His jaw clenched with the effort of modulating his voice, of maintaining a veneer of civility. He could hear his mother’s strident voice in his head, admonishing him.

_It’s unseemly to make a scene in public, Otabek – lower your voice. Why must you be so hotheaded? I’m sure you didn’t get it from your father or I. It’s that coach of yours, isn’t it? The American. She’s encouraging your teenage nonsense. Do you want me to have to pull you out of your skating program?_

Otabek blinked, shaking his head to dislodge the memory. His mother wasn’t here; he didn’t have to listen to a memory.

Victor looked up, frowning, from where he’d lurched forward to steady his wineglass. “No? I’ve only called him the one time. But surely you’ve talked to him since then, if it really has been a week.”

“More like two,” Mila muttered to Yuuri in the background.

Otabek’s heart sank, but he ignored her. “I haven’t talked to him at all. I didn’t think he wanted me to. He hasn’t contacted me.” He sat down again, defensive, and suddenly worried. He met Yuuri’s eyes, and saw his own worry reflected back at him.

“Has _anyone_ talked to him since he left, aside from Victor’s one phone call?” Yuuri asked, glancing reproachfully at his fiancée. He was polite – he, too, must have had civility drilled into him – but his flashing eyes and the tremor in his voice betrayed his urgency.

They all shook their heads.

“Has he sent anyone a message?” Yuuri asked, polite veneer slipping, hinting at the steel beneath.

Otabek shook his head, his phone burning like a brand in his pocket. He should have messaged him. He hadn’t thought it would be welcome, but… He glanced around. They were all scrolling through their phones, but soon shook their heads. Victor looked puzzled and oblivious to the sudden tension. Georgi seemed to have gotten distracted with something on his phone. The worry in Yuuri’s eyes grew, mirroring the worry Otabek felt.

He fished his phone out again and checked his email, his Instagram, his text messages… Nothing. He struggled to remember the passwords for some of the more obscure accounts - the ones Yura had badgered him into getting but he hadn’t actually bothered to use. There weren’t any messages there, either.

“I wonder…” Mila said softly, eyes distant.

Otabek snapped his head around to look at her, and she looked up, surprised, then shook her head. “Nothing. It’s —nothing.”

But her eyes said something else.

Otabek thought he was the only one who noticed. He was certainly the only one who received a very pointed look, once the conversation moved on, and a nod toward the doors.

“I think I’ll head back,” Mila said, yawning. Otabek thought it looked a little too forced. “Those sit spins are killing me.”

She met Otabek’s eyes again, and hers spoke volumes.

He waited for her to make her way outside, and then excused himself, as well, pleading exhaustion. It wasn’t feigned - Yakov had made him practice his jumps today until he could hardly move, and he wasn’t entirely certain he’d make it back to his apartment before falling asleep.

Mila cornered him by his bike. “It’s you. It has to be. I mean, I thought so before, but—“

Otabek held up a hand, halting the rapid flow of speech. “Wait, what? What are you talking about?”

The words tumbled out of her with all the force of a stream swollen with snowmelt. “Yuri’s had a crush on someone for-freaking-ever. He let slip that it was a guy, oh, months ago now, and someone he got along with - was _friends_ with - and of course that’s you, it has to be you. Who else has he ever considered a friend? Even though we _are_ his friends, really, but—“

Otabek lost track of her words, tugged suddenly into a flashback, to a memory tinged with red and gold, a moment frozen in time, a bridge and a hand held out in question: _“Are you going to be friends with me, or not?”_

He shuddered, wrenching himself out of it, stared wide-eyed at a sober and oh-so-guilty-looking Mila.

“I was just trying to give him a little push, since he wasn’t making a move…” She groaned and flopped dramatically back against the wall. “ _That’s_ why he was acting so weird after the competition! He must have heard me ask you to go to the banquet with me. I thought I heard his shoes squeaking…”

Otabek scowled darkly at her. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that our Yuri is probably crying his eyes out and ‘giving you space.’ _God_ he probably thinks he waited too long and I made a move on you.”

“But he hasn’t sent me —“

“Exactly. He hasn’t sent _anyone_ any messages. He hasn’t posted anything on Instagram. Or any of his social media. It’s like he disappeared the moment he stepped into that taxi.” She looked earnestly into his eyes. “But, Otabek… None of _us_ have contacted him either. Except Victor, but that hardly counts. The poor kid probably thinks we’ve all forgotten him.”

Otabek’s heart sped up with every word that passed her lips. His eyes opened wide, his heart pounded in his chest. He had to go. He had to _do_ something. “Mila - are you saying I should call him?”

She shook her head. “No, Otabek. It’s too late for that. I’m saying you have to go get him. You have to save him from himself.”

* * *

** Yuri POV **

“Yuratchka! There’s someone at the door!”

“I’ll get it Grandpa!” he called back, tucking the strand of hair that was bothering him behind his ear again. “Don’t get up!” He hurriedly scraped out the last of the batter, shoved the pan into the oven, and bumped the door closed with his hip as he wiped his hands on his apron.

The insistent rapping came again, and he clattered out of the kitchen without bothering to take off the apron. “I’m coming, jeez!” he shouted, wrenching the door open… then stopped, staring.

It was Beka.

Beka, dressed in dusty jeans and a leather jacket, motorcycle helmet dangling from his hand.

Beka, hair sweaty and disheveled, eyes dark and dangerous.

Beka, looking like he’d just stepped out of one of Yuri’s fevered dreams.

“Beka,” he whispered, hardly daring to believe. “What—what are you doing here?”

Beka didn’t answer; he reached out toward Yuri’s face, but let his hand drop when Yuri flinched.

“Sorry,” he said, clenching his fists at his sides. “Only you’ve got flour…”

Yuri felt himself flushing and hastily scrubbed at his face with his apron.

“I was worried about you,” Beka said softly, when Yuri looked up again.

And _oh_ , it felt good to finally hear those words. Yuri’s heart thumped erratically in his chest, and he felt a bit dizzy as his ruthlessly buried hope sprung suddenly to life.

“Mila knows I’m fine,” he said, when he could breathe again. “I just talked to her.”

“I know. She’s the one who told me how to get here.”

Yuri felt the glimmer of hope extinguish, and closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain. Right. Mila. Of course.

“May I come in?”

“Huh?” Yuri looked up, confused, and oh, he shouldn’t have done that. Beka’s hesitant smile was going to kill him. “Oh,” he stalled, thinking frantically, “I’m not sure…” He glanced at Grandpa, pleading with his eyes for him to say no.

“Invite the young man in, Yuratchka,” Grandpa said, ignoring Yuri’s plea.

Yuri felt his eyes go wide with horror, mouthed _No_! The mischievous glint in Grandpa’s eyes spelled trouble. Grandpa narrowed his eyes at him, and Yuri caved. He knew that look.

“I — okay,” he said, turning back to Beka but not looking directly at him. He could do this. “Please. Come in.”

Beka followed Yuri inside, leaving his shoes by the door and slipping off his jacket. He didn’t speak - just followed Yuri to the couch, where he sat stiffly, every line of his body rigid with tension. Yuri perched gingerly next to him, at the very edge of the cushion, leaving nearly a foot of space between them. He felt like a startled bird, barely touching the ground, poised to take flight at the smallest provocation.

Grandpa looked between them, clearly amused.

“So, Yuri,” he said, “Won’t you tell me this nice young man’s name?”

Beka, who looked every inch a dangerous rebel, glanced up, startled. Yuri couldn’t hold back his snort. He knew Beka was basically a giant teddy bear, hiding his soft, gooey center behind a hard exterior, but most people didn’t ever get to see that side of him. Of course, he’d realize soon enough that Yuri had told Grandpa all about him. And then Yuri would die out of sheer embarrassment.

The timer dinged, and Yuri leapt off the couch. “Oh! The cake. Um. Grandpa, this is Beka. Otabek. I’ll just…” he motioned awkwardly toward the kitchen, then ducked through the door, grateful for the excuse to escape.

 

 


	6. Take A Chance On Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My apologies for the wait! This chapter is split into three sections: The first in Yuri's POV, the second in Otabek's, and the third in Grandpa Nikolai Plisetsky's. It should be clearly marked. This chapter was beta-ed by the lovely Altergravity. The song that goes with this chapter is "Take A Chance On Me" by ABBA, found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-crgQGdpZR0&index=7&list=PLJxgISizrEY1GTvh3_--m9qmGS6RdP6XS

**Yuri POV**

Beka was the consummate gentleman, as Yuri had always suspected. His heart melted every time Beka sensed what Grandpa wanted before he asked, quietly getting things down from high shelves, bringing a blanket if he looked cold, moving Yuri’s haphazardly strewn possessions to make room for the wheelchair. He helped Yuri cook and clean, pushed Grandpa around the neighborhood and to the store for groceries… he even took the time to befriend Princess. Of course, the damn cat soon preferred Beka’s quiet peace to Yuri’s constant quivering motion, the traitor. Yuri pointedly didn’t think about how much he’d like to curl up against Beka, too.

He was watching them enviously, one afternoon, not sure if he was more jealous of the cat or Beka, when he was startled out of his brooding.

“What’s her name?” Beka asked softly, as he stroked her silky fur.

Yuri flushed. “Um. Princess. _Don’t_ laugh. I named her when I was like nine.”

Beka smiled. “I wasn’t going to laugh, Yura. I _am_ curious about your logic, though. You don’t seem the type to give such a name.”

Yuri bit his lip, trying to decide how much to say. Beka sat there patiently, waiting for him to speak, stroking the damn cat, and, hell. Why not?

“I had a lot of trouble learning English for competitions,” he admitted. “I used some of my mother's old books. She adored fairy tales; she had both English and Russian editions of her favorites, and she used to read them to me. It was easier to pick up English words from them, since I knew so many of the stories by heart.” He snorted. “Of course, a lot of the words are pretty impractical. I mean… how many times have you had to know ‘princess’ or ‘castle’ or ‘dragon’ at competition?”

“Yura, your parents…”

Beka paused, giving Yuri an out, and he both loved and hated him for it. He’d never talked about them, not to anyone but Grandpa, but…

“Come on.”

He grabbed Beka’s wrist before he could change his mind, tugging him insistently into his room, pulling him down to sit on the edge of the bed. Thank goodness he’d made it this morning.

“Yura…”

“Shhh!”

Yuri tossed his pillow across the room, ignoring Beka’s quiet snort, and unearthed the faded photograph. He held it close for a moment; it was his secret. He traced the worn lines of the woman who looked so like him, all the way down to the sparkle in her eyes, the shape of her nose, the tilt of her smile. Then the man, beside her, arm slung around her shoulders, laughing. He’d got the shape of his face from him, his flaxen hair, his dancer’s grace. He drew in a sharp breath, fighting the familiar sting of tears, then thrust the photograph into Beka’s hand.

“Here. Just - be careful with it. It’s the only one I have.”

He clamped his lips shut over the words that threatened to spill out, sealing them in with the tears. He snuck a quick sideways glance at Beka, scrutinizing the photo intently with pursed lips, then refused to look again. He studied their hands instead, where they rested on the coverlet. His fingers had grown, in the last two years, and now they telegraphed a similar strength. But his fingers were long and thin, where Beka’s were thick, and they stood out in stark relief against Beka’s darker skin.

“Yura…”

Beka’s fingers caught his, trapping them and squeezing gently. Yuri could have easily torn his hand away, but instead he held still, heart beating so fast he was sure Beka could hear it. He didn’t look up - he couldn’t bear to look up - as he began to speak.

“My mother. And my father. She was - her name was Annika, and she was studying to become a biologist. My father - Pavel - he was a dancer, and an activist. They met at a public skating rink, near her University. They were both there with friends, and they were both terrible. At skating, I mean. They ran into one another, landed in a tangled heap, and fell head over heels for one another. Literally.” He snorted and wiped away a tear. “They disappeared, when I was still very young. I - we think they were taken into custody at one of the rallies. Grandpa says there were some violent clashes with the police. He thought he saw here there, on the news, but he’s never been able to find out for sure. We don’t know what happened to them, but…” he trailed off, feeling the familiar trickle of ice down his spine as he thought of his beautiful Mama and graceful Papa, rotting in a prison cell somewhere. He knew they had most likely been killed; knew that that was realistically the best thing that could have happened to them. At least that way their suffering would have been short-lived.

He drew his knees up to his chin, wrapped his arms tightly around them, and ducked his head, so his hair swung forward to obscure his eyes. “Grandpa tells me about them, sometimes. When he’s had enough vodka.”

He didn’t say that he loved those days, cherished every new scrap of information about them that Grandpa relinquished, or that he hated them, too, because they tore the old wounds open and kept the pain fresh and raw. He didn’t have to. He knew Beka understood - could feel it in the way Beka’s large palm suddenly engulfed his own, and the steady pressure he exerted as he twined their fingers together.

They sat silently, each wrapped in their own thoughts, as the afternoon light that streamed through the window paled and the shadows lengthened, creeping steadily across the floor. They didn’t move until Grandpa called them for dinner, and then Otabek disentangled their fingers, gave Yuri’s shoulder a quick pat, and slipped out the door, leaving Yuri a moment to gather himself back together and hide everything once more under his familiar angry teenager mask. He was grateful for that, grateful for the way Beka answered Grandpa’s questions easily, subtly deflecting his attention from Yuri until he felt able to speak again. He was grateful, but it made his heart ache with the carefully buried yearning for more than a supportive friendship. Beka could be his person - if only he wanted to. But he didn’t want to, and so Yuri kept his answers monosyllabic and vague, and stared mutinously at his plate, refusing to meet Beka’s eyes across the table.

He excused himself after dinner, pleading exhaustion; Grandpa and Beka shared a worried look but let him go. He lay in his bed for what felt like hours, wide awake, staring blindly up into the darkness. If he didn’t love Mila as much as he did… But he did love her - she was the best big sister he could imagine. He didn’t want to hurt her by admitting his feelings to Beka— Yuri balled up his fist and punched his pillow, hard. He loved Beka. More fool him. But Beka didn’t love him, and he refused to let a stupid crush come between them. Any of them. If Mila was anywhere near as smart as he thought, she’d know what a catch Beka was. Hell, he’d practically told her. She’d even warned him to make his move - and he’d let the chance slip by. He could hardly blame her for falling for the same man as him. And he would get over it. He _would._

_Like you’ve gotten over your parents?_

_“Shut up!”_ he hissed, not caring if he looked crazy, since there was no one there to see him. This was different. It had to be.

_Lies…_ came the whispered response.

Yuri flipped violently over, yanking the covers up as far as they could go and jamming the pillow over his head.

But still, sleep eluded him. He groaned, flipping over once more, hoping Beka couldn’t hear him tossing and turning. Having him here was wonderful and terrible all at once, and he found himself simultaneously wishing that he would just leave already and desperately wanting him to stay. He felt so confused and conflicted; he wasn’t sure about anything anymore. Not even skating.

He sighed, glancing at the corner where his skates had lain, abandoned, since he’d arrived. He knew he should have been practicing at the local rink, working on a new program, but… it all seemed so pointless and empty. He wondered if this was how Victor had felt, that last season before he dropped everything to coach Katsuki, and for the first time felt a twinge of regret for how he’d acted. He couldn’t imagine going back to St. Petersburg, after everything, whether Beka were there or not. He toyed with the idea of moving somewhere entirely new to restart his skating career: to Canada, maybe. But then he remembered that fucking JJ lived in Canada. Scratch that. He had no intention of living in the same country as JJ. So, where, then? Japan? He thought of Hasetsu fondly for a moment, and then remembered that not only were the triplets there, but that Victor and Katsuki would be there too, now that they were retiring. So… no. He tried to think of somewhere else, but he couln’t think of anywhere that wouldn’t remind him with a constant ache of Beka. Then he realized that it didn’t matter where he went - the fucking ice would remind him. He muttered a few choice words, threw the covers off, and turned on his bedside lamp. He gathered up the skates and other gear and shoved it all into the back of his closet, burying it beneath a tower of random artifacts of his childhood. He never wanted to see any of it again.

He pulled his oldest, most worn stuffed tiger out of the pile and climbed back into bed, clutching it to his chest. He fell asleep flanked by two stuffed tigers, ferociously guarding his troubled dreams and the tear tracks on his cheeks.

* * *

**Otabek POV**

“This isn’t working.”

Mila’s snort sounded a little tinny, but her amused grin was wide as ever. “What’s not working?”

Otabek scowled at her, contemplating throwing his phone across the street in frustration and feeling a sudden wave of empathy for Yuri. “This,” he growled, the arm not holding the phone sweeping out and away from his body to take in his surroundings. “All of it. I’m beginning to think he never wanted me at all. He certainly doesn’t act as if he does.”

Mila sighed, and the smile faded. “Beka… he’s young. And hurting. I shouldn’t have meddled, and we certainly shouldn’t have left him alone for so long. He’s stubborn - you know that. You’ll just have to wear him down.” She turned, shouted “coming!” and then looked back, rolling her eyes. “Ugh, I gotta go or Yakov will take my phone again. Tell Yuri hi for me!”

“Wait - Mila! I don’t think that’s a very good—“

The screen went dark, as the call cut abruptly off, and Otabek sighed. Well, that avenue was clearly a bust. He kicked moodily at a can someone had discarded on the sidewalk, then bent over to scoop it up, a lifetime of lectures about littering having left him with the compulsive need to pick up any stray trash he found lying about. He shoved his phone into his back pocket as he went to put the can in the bin; he looked up just in time to see the curtain at the window twitch, the flick of pale hair as the observer - Yuri, it had to be - turned away. He sighed and braced himself for the argument as he mounted the stairs.

“Who was that?” Yuri’s tone was flat, disinterested, but his partially-hidden eyes flashed dangerously. Otabek shrugged. “Mila. She asked me to call and update them once a week.”

Yuri nodded sharply. “And?”

Otabek frowned, feeling as if he’d missed a step. “And what?”

“ _And_ when are you going back?” Yuri asked, rolling his eyes.

Otabek still felt off-balance. “Did you want me to go?”

“Whatever.” Yuri turned back to the television, currently showing an old nature documentary on tigers. He pointedly ignored Otabek until he gave up and headed into the kitchen to find a snack, and then maybe a nap. He was exhausted from all the late nights worrying over Yuri. Every time he thought he’d made progress, Yuri shut him out again. He was beginning to think this entire venture was a fool’s errand, and that he’d be better off returning to St. Petersburg to work on a program for next year. Yuri obviously didn’t intend to compete - he’d not even mentioned skating in the time Otabek had stayed with him.

He didn’t think he could go back to St. Petersburg though - not without Yuri. He didn’t think he could face a season of pitying glances. Mila knew how he felt about Yuri, and he suspected Katsuki did too. He wasn’t sure about the others, but still, they would be constant reminders of what he wanted but couldn’t have. No, he’d be better off returning home to Kazakhstan, and either finding another trainer for the season or perhaps even announcing his retirement. It wasn’t unusual for skaters his age to retire - 20 was young for anything else, but getting up there for all but the exceptional skaters. And he was far from exceptional. Skating just felt wrong, without Yuri.

He was engulfed by a sudden wave of homesickness, and was tempted to call, let his little sister’s infectious laughter cheer him. It was past midnight there, though, and he didn’t really want to try and explain why he’d felt it necessary to wake them all up. Maybe tomorrow he would give wooing Yuri one more chance. If he was rejected, again (as he suspected he would be), then he’d be on the next flight back to Kazakhstan. He’d have Mila settle things with his landlord and send him the few possessions he’d left in the rented flat. Then he’d spend the rest of his life trying to forget the fiery blonde skater who’d stolen his heart. Maybe he’d even let his mother arrange a marriage for him. He knew she’d held off for so long because she wanted him to pursue his dreams as a skater, but without that… Well. A marriage might not be so bad. He cherished silence and solitude, but sometimes he got lonely. And she loved him. She’d do her best to find him someone quiet and scholarly. Someone he could live with. Someone who didn’t remind him of the one person he didn’t think he’d ever be able to forget.

* * *

**Nikolai Plisetsky POV**

Yuri’s friend had fallen easily into their quiet routine, and he’d long since ceased to be wary of the boy. Otabek was unfailingly polite, though his replies sometimes seemed curt. But he didn’t think it was intentional; he’d seen the flicker of fear, of a need for approval in his eyes when he’d asked the boy questions, those first days. And it was so obvious, the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at Yuri. He’d watched suspiciously at first, but it was soon clear that the infatuation went both ways, though Yuri staunchly denied it, when he dropped a few hints.

Nikolai sighed. _Ah Yuratchka_ , he thought, shaking his head, as he watched them move closer on the couch, getting caught up in conversation, and then shuffle awkwardly away, for what felt like the thousandth time. _As much as I sympathize, having been young and in love myself… I have less time than you to waste. And I want to see you happy before I die, so get a move on._

_I know you’re scared to love, Yuratchka_ , he thought later, as he watched the pain and confusion in Otabek’s eyes as Yuri brushed his concern off once again. _But I can tell you right now that it’s no way to spend your life. You can’t stop living when the people you love die. That’s no way to honor their memories. I wish I’d realized that years ago, when you were young. I’d change so much, now, Yuratchka. But your mother… she was happy with your father. And even though they didn’t have long together, they packed those years full of memories. I would never change my decision to allow him to woo her. And it brought me you, my Yuratchka. I would never trade my years with you._

It was clear, he decided, as he readied himself for bed, that he would have to intervene, or the young idiots were liable to make some noble sacrifice and drive one another away. The air between them was tense and awkward; it crackled about the small flat, full of sharp eddies and undercurrents. But what could he do?

He eased himself into bed with a quiet “ _oof”_ and indrawn breath. Yuri would never have allowed him that movement, if he’d been thinking straight, but he’d been too preoccupied after dinner to remember their usual routine. And, really, it hadn’t even been that difficult. He rotated his arms, carefully, then twisted from side to side. His muscles twinged, protesting the unaccustomed movement, but overall, his back felt like it was healing nicely. He smiled. He’d suspected as much for several days, now, but had chosen to hide that fact from Yuri in order to delay the outcome he most certainly didn’t want: that both boys would leave and never acknowledge the unspoken truths that lay heavily between them.

 

 


	7. Shut Up and Dance With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My apologies for the delay. This chapter proved more difficult than I’d anticipated, and I had an annoying possibly-migraine-related-episode-thing that left me unable to use my hands for a week, which delayed any writing and typing. I really need to find some good dictation software for next time this happens. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the conclusion to this little tale.

**Yuri POV**

“Morning Grandpa, Beka,” Yuri yawned, slumping into his chair at the table.

“Morning,” Beka replied, sliding a plate of potatoes and sausages in front of him. It smelled divine, and Yuri dug in with more enthusiasm than he’d been able to muster in days.

He’d been tossing and turning until dawn, wrestling with the impossible situation they found themselves in. He knew Grandpa was steadily improving, and that they’d soon have to make decisions that he desperately wanted to put off. He didn’t know what he would do, where he would go; only that he couldn’t bear to return to St. Petersburg. He dreaded having to share Beka with Mila, dreaded losing him to her even more. No. He’d have to go somewhere else - the only question was where. As for skating… Well. Maybe he could sweet talk Lilia into referring him to a ballet studio. Somewhere far away from Beka, and everything he’d lost. Somewhere like —

“Yuratchka.”

Yuri suddenly realized that Grandpa had been trying to get his attention, and he felt his cheeks heat. “Yes, Grandpa? I’m sorry - I didn’t hear…”

Grandpa snorted. “Evidently. I was just asking Otabek here if he’d drive us all down to the rink this afternoon. I’ve never seen him skate, and I’d love to see your routines in person.”

The blood rushed from Yuri’s face, and he felt faint. His ears rang, and he was having trouble focusing. The room went blurry, and he couldn’t get enough air, and—

“Yura!” Beka’s hands closed protectively around his shoulders and he took his weight, supporting and anchoring him. Yuri drew in a shaky breath, and then another, and the ringing in his ears faded as the room shivered back into focus.

“Thanks,” he said softly, shrugging his shoulders until Beka’s hands reluctantly slipped off. He glanced up through the curtain of his bangs and deflated at the hopeful look on Grandpa’s face. How was he supposed to explain that he was never skating again, _now_? “I don’t…“ he started, not sure where he was going with it, since the only thing he could say wasn’t an option. “That is…”

“It would mean so much to me, Yuratchka,” Grandpa said, smiling that rare hopeful smile, and damn, Yuri couldn’t deny him that.

“I — hell. Why not?” he said, defeated. “We’ll go this afternoon.”

“Yura—” Beka started, but Grandpa cut him off.

“No, no, Yuratchka,” he said. “You’ve not been skating at all since you’ve been here, nor has Beka, here. I’ll not have you hurt yourselves on my account.”

For just a moment, Yuri allowed himself to hope that he’d escape the humiliation of skating with - in front of - Beka… but then Grandpa continued, blithely ignoring his distress.

“You’ll just have to get back to practicing, work up to it. A week or so should do it, right Yuratchka?”

Yuri gave up, submitting to whatever forces were determined to break him. “Yeah, sure.”

“Great!” Grandpa beamed at him, and the last vestiges of his resistance fell away. He couldn’t deny him, not when he’d been so much better lately.

Beka patted his shoulder, in a gesture that was probably meant to be reassuring, but only sent tension sparking and fizzing though his blood.

“We’ll head over there as soon as we clean up breakfast,” Beka said.

Yuri groaned. The idiot sounded almost hopeful. Maybe he could _accidentally_ injure himself while retrieving his skates from his closet? No. He was cursed with relentless grace. No one would ever believe that he’d become suddenly clumsy. _Beka_ would never believe it.

“We’ll go after we clean up breakfast,” he repeated dully, rising abruptly to dump the rest of his potatoes. The last bite he’d attempted had turned to ash in his mouth, and he was afraid he’d vomit if he smelled them any longer. He just wanted to get this embarrassing spectacle over with. He refused to think about the hours he was now going to have to spend with only Beka and the ice for company. That he could now look forward to an entire week spent on the ice, where he had never been able to hide his feelings. If Beka didn’t know how he felt about him now… Well. By the time this week was up, he would, for better or worse.

He felt a tiny tendril of relief curl around his heart, take root in his stomach and spread through the rest of him, bringing a curiously detached peace. By the end of the week, all of the heartache and pain and hopeless longing would be over.

* * *

Yuri was angry. This was nothing new; in fact, he almost always skated angrily. It was one of his main sources of strength, the secret to his ability to consistently push himself past his limits. But now he was frustrated and angry, and most of that anger was directed at himself instead of outwards. Across the rink, Beka skated as serenely as ever. Yuri desperately envied him his apparent peace of mind, and also hated it. He wished that Beka would just show some damn emotion!

“Yura!” Beka called to him, interrupting his train of thought. “Slow down! You’ve not skated in weeks; you don’t want to injure yourself now!”

“Shut up, Beka,” he snarled, the anger taking hold, “I’ll do what I damn well please!” He felt guilty immediately, but when he turned to apologize, Beka had already skated away and was facing the far wall determinedly. He refused to look at Yuri again the rest of their practice. Yuri knew that Beka was right - he really _hadn’t_ skated in weeks, and he really _did_ need to take it easy, it was true - but his annoyance at himself for snapping at Beka tapped into his growing frustration, and instead he pushed himself harder. He refused to stop until, panting, he nearly collapsed on the ice. As he did, he felt a sickening wrench in his calf. It didn’t feel like a bad injury - probably just a pulled muscle - but it would still set him back several days if he didn’t want to injure it further.

He tried to conceal the injury on their way home, limping as unobtrusively as possible, but Beka, as usual, noticed.

* * *

**Otabek POV**

Otabek quietly massaged Yuri’s injured leg, ignoring a series of fumbling attempts to apologize. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Yura?” he asked, when he judged that he’d done all he could.

Yuri hesitated. “Read to me?” he finally asked, eyes cast down to focus on his anxiously twisting fingers, refusing to meet Otabek’s amused gaze.

“All right,” he said simply, trying to hide his amused smile. He didn’t fool Yuri, of course, who looked up, eyes narrowing dangerously. “What shall I read?” he asked quickly, aiming to divert Yuri’s legendary temper. He glanced around the room, brows drawing together in confusion as he took in the complete and utter lack of books.

Yuri snorted. “In there.” He gestured toward the closet. “Top shelf. Take your pick.”

Otabek gingerly pulled open the door, remembering the hazards of opening similar doors in Yuri’s other living spaces… and smiled at the pile of stuffed tigers he found instead. His fingers extended, reaching for the nearest one, and then his breath caught as his idly wandering gaze landed on —

“Yura? Are these…”

He glanced back and was rewarded with one of Yuri’s bright, unguarded smiles. “Yeah. Those were my mother’s. Actually, Beka?” he asked, as Otabek’s finger crept forward to caress the gilded jewel-toned bindings.

“Hmm?”

“The red one, maybe? It’s my favorite.” He flushed, anticipating the teasing, but Otabek merely smiled and drew out the red volume from its place, settled snugly between the blue and green.

“All right.” He could feel his voice deepen, words rolling fluidly off his tongue as the echoes of his native accent crept in, caressing the words and amplifying their emotional punch – a legacy of his father and countless hours devouring tales at the man’s knees. Yuri leaned forward, seemingly unconsciously, and Otabek allowed the sliver of a smile to escape. He was beautiful like this, soft and unguarded. He fought against the temptation to reach out and stroke the cornsilk strands of his hair, mussed from the fall, and the brisk winter air. It shone distractingly in the light that spilled across Yuri’s rapt form, and if he stretched his arm out, just a tiny bit—

“Beka? Yuratchka?” Grandpa called from the living room, “Come out here and keep an old man company.”

Yuri’s expressive face morphed instantly into his indifferent, indignant mask and his eyes flashed, promising murder. Otabek smothered a smile and smoothly rose to his feet, tucking the precious book securely under one arm as he ruthlessly tamped down his errant attraction, and then offered the other to Yuri, wordlessly helping him into the living room. He didn’t comment on how Yuri was allowing him to bear most of his weight.

Once he’d settled Yuri comfortably on the couch, he moved to sit in the other chair, but Yuri stopped him with an insistent hand on his arm.

“Sit by me? So I can see the pictures?”

“Of course, Yura,” he said, sliding in next to him, careful not to jostle his leg where it lay propped on a stack of pillows, and beginning to read once more.

Yuri leaned his head against Otabek’s shoulder and settled in to listen; Otabek struggled to keep his voice and heartbeat level. Yuri was _right there_ ; strands of hair tickling Otabek’s neck, the light scent of his shampoo wafting up with every breath… He took a shaky breath, released it, begged his voice not to betray how much he was affected by the simple closeness. He soldiered on, and soon was lost in the story once more.

* * *

They made it through the red volume, and were well into the purple when he conceded that Yuri’s leg was indeed recovered. He had borrowed a chessboard and checkers from one of Grandpa’s neighbors, and had insisted that Yuri and Grandpa sit and play while he waited on them. Though, really, he’d spent more time reading and helping Yuri, who was far too impatient for chess.

* * *

Otabek watched anxiously as Yuri slid smoothly across the ice. He knew it had been a minor injury, one that didn’t _really_ require as much rest as he’d insisted on. Hell, Yakov would most likely have had Yuri back on the ice within the hour, with _maybe_ a slightly-less-insane pace in deference to the injury.

He’d half expected Yuri to fight him, like the spitting tomcat he knew the small-but-fiery skater could be… but he hadn’t. He’d rested until Otabek had relented and taken them both back to the ice - where he was now executing the most remarkable sequence of jumps and spins Otabek had ever seen. He snorted. That was all for him, of course - a nonverbal “See?” that rang out loud and clear because it was said in the language they both understood best.

He stared, unseeing, as the words rang in his head like a bell. _The language they both understood best_. Of course. He waited for Yuri to pause, then seamlessly slipped into his own jump sequence. But where Yuri had leapt, he swooped low; where Yuri practically flew, barely skimming the surface of the ice, he sped along it, bent low, grounded solidly to the ice and calling forth its drumbeat. Then he paused, expectant, waiting, eyes fixed firmly on Yuri’s face.

Yuri’s head was tilted, birdlike; his brow furrowed in thought. Otabek waited. _If only_ … And then Yuri shivered to attention, his eyes lit with delight and competitive fire, and he was off, leaping across the ice, answering the unvoiced question.

They played their strange back-and-forth game for what felt like hours, caught up in the magic of call and response, question and answer, spin and glide.

* * *

They stopped together, gliding through one last, elegant loop and then halting with a quiet hiss of blades on ice. For a moment, they stared at one another, panting slightly, catching their breaths. The moment stretched out and out, trembling like a soap bubble on the edge of breaking. Otabek said the first thing that came to his mind, desperate to keep Yuri from withdrawing again.

“Did you get my messages?”

Yuri’s eyes snapped up to his, searched his face. “What messages?” he asked, eyes narrowed slightly in confusion.

Beka frowned. “I sent several, the last few days before I got here. After I realized you might actually want to talk to me after all. I didn’t at first, but Mila—“

Yuri cut him off. “Wait. No you haven’t, I — Oh.”

“What?”

“I think maybe…” Yuri grabbed his hand suddenly, dragged him back across the ice.

Otabek, off-balance, tried to tug his hand from Yuri’s vice-like grip. “Yura, what are you—“

“Not now. I need to check…”

Yuri didn’t speak again until he’d tugged him all the way back to his room, with only a curt nod for Grandpa as they passed. “Now where did I…?” Yuri muttered to himself, digging through his drawers. Otabek just watched, thoroughly puzzled.

“Aha!” Yuri exclaimed, unearthing his phone from the bottom of a drawer. Otabek realized, startled, that he’d not seen Yuri using it once while he’d visited, and wondered how he’d failed to notice its absence.

“I, uh, haven’t turned it on in a while,” Yuri said sheepishly, turning the phone to display the blank screen. “Hang on — lemme find the charger.”

Otabek puzzled this over as Yuri impatiently flung things aside. “But, you said you talked to Mila?”

“Oh, yeah,” Yuri said, sheepishly. “She, uh, emailed me. I used Grandpa’s computer.” He was frowning down at the phone now, as it reluctantly booted up, lip sucked between his teeth in a very distracting way. “Oh!” he exclaimed, cheeks flushing lightly as he scrolled through the messages - Beka winced as he remembered just how _many_ messages he’d sent - “I didn’t ignore them on purpose! I couldn’t—“ He smiled shyly up at Beka, who smiled shyly back.

“Good.”

Yuri’s eyes were soon glued to his screen once more, and he chewed his lip as he scrolled. Otabek tried not to look – he didn’t really want to know his reaction to…

Yuri’s hand flew to his mouth, and his eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. “I am an _idiot_ ,” he muttered. Then he looked up. “No, _you_ are an idiot. Why the hell didn’t you just tell me how you felt?”

Otabek winced. “I… well…”

Yuri sighed. “Fine. I know why you didn’t tell me. But why Mila didn’t…”

“I think she felt it would be better coming from me?” he offered.

That earned him a snort. “She didn’t want to risk my temper over her staggering idiocy, you mean. I suppose I can’t blame her.” His smile turned decidedly wicked. “But next time I see her...”

Otabek thought he probably ought to warn her, but part of him felt she deserved it for meddling as she had. She’d only been trying to help, but she’d nearly ruined things. Ruined this. In any case, she could most likely handle just about anything Yuri could dish out.

* * *

**Yuri POV**

The next time they skated, Yuri didn’t waste time on Beka’s subtle call-and-response game of the day before. He waited impatiently for Beka to pause, then grabbed his hand and swung him into a shaky spin. Beka wobbled for an instant, but quickly righted himself, taking control of the spin and leading Yuri across the ice. Perfect. He looked up, catching Beka’s surprised gaze, watching it turn to interest and exultant anticipation. Then he nodded. _Your move._

Beka took up the challenge with his usual stolid grace - he danced Yuri across the ice, dipping him, twirling him, tossing him into gravity-defying leaps and then grounding him again. They improvised their way into a passable imitation of a pairs routine, and Yuri loved every second of it. Dancing with Beka was the perfect combination of wild and restrained - like dancing with a tightly leashed storm. It was everything Yuri had always loved about skating, everything that had seduced him from that first moment he stepped out on the ice. It was wonderful. It was exhilarating. And the best part was the look in Beka’s eyes, the look that said he felt it, too.

“So,” he said, once he’d caught his breath. “That was something.”

Beka nodded, hands on his knees.

Yuri grinned at him. “Since we’ve missed the deadline for competing this season and don’t have new programs to work on… wanna work on a pairs routine instead? Just skate for the fun of it?”

Beka didn’t answer him in words, but Yuri understood just the same.

* * *

They skated their routines for Grandpa at last. Yuri waited a beat after his final pose, then punched the air with an exultant fist. _Yes!_ That was the best performance he’d done yet, and the excited gleam in Grandpa’s eyes told him the old man knew it as well. He turned, heart in his throat, to look at Beka.

He was met with equally bright eyes, an incandescent grin, and a thumbs up. He laughed. Then he stood spellbound, rooted to the spot, until Beka struck his own final pose. Yuri felt a spark of jealousy when Grandpa seemed equally delighted - but not in the way he expected. Instead, he found himself miffed that Otabek’s grace should be seen by anyone but him.

He gave his own thumbs up, then startled as Beka turned to him and stretched out his hand, echoing Katsuki’s final free skate pose, that season that changed all their lives.

“Skate with me,” he said, eyes bright and sparkling and crinkling up at the edges. “Skate with me in public, in front of an audience.”

Yuri frowned at him. “Huh? It’s too late for us to skate this season, Beka.”

His eyes didn’t lose their sparkle; if anything it increased, growing mischievous. “In singles.”

Yuri waited for a moment, then gestured impatiently. “And? We skate singles, Beka.”

“What if we didn’t? Skate pairs with me this season, Yura? We can use the routine we’ve been working on. The other team had to pull out due to injury - we have time to sign up. If you want.”

His smile was so hopeful and open that Yuri found himself powerless to resist. “I - hell. All right. But you’re the one breaking the news to Yakov.”

Beka’s laughter, bright and free as it echoed around the empty rink, was the best sound Yuri had ever heard. He skated abruptly toward him, letting out a peal of laughter of his own as Beka stood, staring at him, up until the moment they collided with a startled _Oof._ They ended in a tangle on the ice, and it didn’t escape Yuri’s notice that Beka had somehow managed to arrange them so Yuri landed on top of him, completely unscathed. He rolled his eyes, lowering his head until his breath skated across Beka’s face, ruffling his hair and bringing a delicious flush to his cheeks.

“You’re mine. Idiot.” Riding the high of the elation bubbling through his chest, he leaned down, brushed their lips together in a kiss gentler than he thought possible. Not that he should have been surprised. Beka had always brought out the best in him. He captured Beka’s hands as he pulled him to his feet, pressed their palms together, and they danced.

 

~The End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! Comments, kudos, etc. are always appreciated. If you like, you can find me on tumblr at http://whimsicaldragonette.tumblr.com/ where I gush about Otayuri, Victuuri, and Drarry and sometimes share tidbits of stories-in-progress.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed, and feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](https://whimsicaldragonette.tumblr.com/)


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